I Hope This Doesn't Find You

He stares at me. Through the brick walls, the noise from the party—the pounding of music, the rattle of bottles, the hum of conversation punctuated by muffled shrieks of laughter—feels a hundred miles away. Like it belongs to another world, another time, another place. “That . . . wasn’t your first time kissing someone,” he says. A half question.

“Of course not.” It was only my second kiss, but I’m enjoying this, proving his assumptions wrong. And I don’t want to give him any reason to think that what happened just now was special, that it meant something when it didn’t. It shouldn’t.

“Who?” he asks. A full question now.

I lean over the railing, my head turned away from him. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he says heatedly. “But I want to know.”

“Well, I don’t want to tell you,” I say, just to be difficult. Just to deprive him of something too, after he stripped me of my pride.

“Does he go to our school?” he presses, then corrects himself. “No, that isn’t possible. I’m sure I would have heard rumors about it.”

I stay strategically silent.

“On vacation, then? At camp?”

He’s right.

It must show on my face, because he presses in, “It was at camp, wasn’t it? One of those outdoor adventure camps?”

The idea that I would attend a camp to learn fun little skills like woodcutting and weaving and marshmallow baking instead of something academically rigorous is too offensive for me to swallow. “Coding camp,” I say, then see the satisfied curve of his mouth. He’d been baiting me. Of course. He knows I wouldn’t be caught dead wasting my summer on a camp like that when I could be getting ahead of the coursework.

“So a coding camp,” he says, turning this information over on his tongue like it’s something sour. “What’s his name?”

My shoulders hunch in self-defense. “You seem awfully invested in the details for someone who doesn’t care.”

“I already told you, I don’t.” He pauses, his lips sculpted into a sarcastic smile. “I’m curious to know who would have such—peculiar taste—to have dated you. Unless, of course, you’re making it up—”

“I’m not,” I snap, pushing off from the railing and whipping my head around. A misstep. He looks dangerous in the darkness, the scattered lights sharpening the hollows of his cheekbones, the bladed look in his eyes. “His name was Ben. He asked me out after our second seminar together. You can look him up, if you want. He was a swimmer, and he tutored kids during spring break. Everyone said he was attractive.”

“Why did you have to do that?”

The venom in his voice makes me freeze. “What?” I say, confused. “What do you mean? I— It was a dare. They asked me to.”

“You would kiss someone you loathe just because of a childish dare? Just because other people wanted you to?” Contempt laces his tone. Each word is an arrow, and his aim lands true every time. “Do their opinions really mean that much to you?”

This is so unreasonable, so deeply insulting, I’m rendered speechless. I can’t believe I’d kissed him bare minutes ago. I can’t believe I’d let him pull me close like that—run his fingers over my skin like that—

Something blazes over his face, as though he’s remembering it too.

“What’s wrong with you?” I finally choke out. “If you didn’t want to kiss me, you could have just refused.”

“You think I had a chance to? You grabbed me—”

“You stood up too,” I cut in, my voice trembling with fury. “You kissed me back—”

“It was a natural reflex,” he says. “Not that I expect you to know, but—”

“Who’s to say I wouldn’t know?”

That shuts him up.

“Come on,” I say, standing up and smoothing out my skirt, praying nobody can see my hands quiver. It’s just a kiss, I tell myself. It’s just a boy.

Julius hesitates, then pushes onto his feet too. Nobody speaks; they’re all watching us, deadly focused, anticipation building like the wind before a storm. The lights seem to dim further, and the space between us feels like nothing, like twenty miles, like ghost flames.

He’s waiting. For me to make a fool of myself. For me to make the first move.

I let my anger carve away my nerves and close my eyes and kiss him. It’s so fast, so light that I only have time to register the startling softness of his lips before I’m reeling back again.

Oh my god.

I did it.

I actually did it.

The guys are laughing in the background. Someone else is calling my name, but I can’t hear them. This isn’t about them anymore. This is only about us, about the painful beat of my heart, the heat scorching my face.

Julius touches a finger to his lips like he can’t quite believe it either. Then he straightens. Cocks his head, his eyes black with cool amusement. “You call that a kiss?” he says on a scoff. His voice comes out lower than usual, and I can see the effort in the movement of his throat. “That was barely anything.”

The heat inside me flares higher, incinerating all logic and reservation. I want to slap that smug look off his face, but then I think of something even better.

“What about this, then?” I challenge, and before he can reply, I grab the collar of his shirt and pull him to me.

This time, when our lips meet, I don’t back away. I deepen the kiss, letting my fingers slide up his neck, curl into his hair. For one moment, I can feel his shock, the tension running through his frame like a heated wire, and I think: I’ve won. I’ve proven him wrong. Then he kisses me back, presses me closer, and something inside me slides off-balance.

It’s not meant to be like this. The thought is hazy, distant, lost to the sensation of his mouth on mine.

Because I was lying to myself before. Julius isn’t just a boy. He’s my enemy. My equal. My point of comparison. He’s the one I’m constantly trying to outrun, to outsmart, to impress. He’s the ever-moving target in my peripheral vision, the person I’ve mapped all my plans around, the start and finish line and everything in between. All my dreams and nightmares are about him and only him.

I can’t concentrate. The most terrible part of this is that it doesn’t feel terrible at all; not the warm flush of his skin against mine or the firmness of his grip or the breathless sound in the back of his throat.

I want to stay like this.

I want to keep going.

As soon as I think it, white-hot panic jolts through me, reviving the little common sense I have left. No. No, I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t be doing this at all. I push against his chest and he lets go instantly, eyes wide, hands dropping to his sides as if he’s been jerked out of a daze.

Neither of us speaks, and I’m mortified to find myself breathing hard. The harsh, uneven sound fills the room.

“We’ve decided. We dare you . . . to kiss Julius.”

My mind shuts down on itself.

I can only gape at him, unsure if this is their idea of a joke, if I’ve misheard. I must have. There’s absolutely no way they would ask it of me. They know our history by now, they’ve read the emails, they know we’ve hated each other for the past ten years—

But of course, that’s exactly why they’re asking.

My gaze cuts to Julius again. I just need to see his reaction. I expect him to look disgusted by the idea, or enraged, or perhaps delighted at my imminent humiliation. But his expression is unreadable. He shows no outward emotion, and somehow that’s worse. Maybe that’s how little it affects him, how little it means. Maybe that’s how little I matter.

It’s like there’s a stone lodged in my chest, blocking the blood from rushing to my heart.

“Well?” Ray challenges.

I swallow. Force myself to mimic Julius’s nonchalance. “Sure, why not?”

Surprised murmurs rise from the circle. Even Ray looks stunned, like he’d been waiting for me to protest.

And Julius is staring at me, his brows faintly creased. I’ve managed to catch him off guard as well. I feel a flush of victory, not so dissimilar to the thrill of finishing ahead of him in a race.

I accepted long ago that my definition of fun tends to differ from the general teen demographic. Fun is baking a new batch of egg tarts, or beating my previous record for the two-hundred-meter dash, or adding my grades to my academic spreadsheet. It’s not roller coasters or getting wasted on a beach or participating in a game that requires you either embarrass yourself or expose yourself to a number of people.

“Do they . . . really look bad? My clothes, I mean.”

I’m dumbfounded—as much by the question as the fact that he’s asking me. “You look how you always look, Julius,” I manage.

His eyes are wary. “And how is that?”

“Completely pretentious,” I say. I shouldn’t elaborate any further, but something about the stiffness of his posture, the rare vulnerability in his face, makes me add: “In a nice way though.”

Then I bite down on my tongue and make a quick exit before I can say anything else I’ll regret.

Slowly, my muscles relax.

My heart unhooks itself from my rib cage. My breathing evens out.

Then the door swings open again, and I find myself staring at the last person in the world I’d expect to appear.

“What are you here for?” I ask Julius. I’m too surprised to remember to sharpen my words, to hold on to my grudge from the bookstore. To do anything except stare.

He looks just as confused, as if someone else had guided him to my house. He’s certainly not dressed for a party; he’s wearing a navy blazer that brings out the darkness of his eyes, the natural red tint of his lips. But then his features wrap themselves into a perfect little scowl, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets, straightens his spine. “The same thing as everyone else,” he says. “I heard there was free liquor so I thought I’d drop by.”

I blink at him. “I didn’t know you drank. Actually, I recall you saying last year that the only beverages worth your time were coffee and mineral water.”

His skin flushes, though his scowl remains in place. “Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.”

“Or perhaps you’re here to make fun of me,” I guess.

“This may come as a shock, but not everything is about you, Sadie. I don’t care whose party this is; I simply didn’t have anywhere better to go,” he says, his voice bored.

“How sad. You’re not wanted in your own home? You have to come bother me in mine?”

He flinches, then rights himself again with cool poise. The twist of his mouth turns cruel. “Well, if I can make your night a little worse, why not? I’ll at least have accomplished something here.”

“Although, just to put it out there, even if you were a serial killer, I would absolutely stick by you and sharpen your knives.”

“Not everyone is as punctual as you are,” Abigail says. “Your idea of ten minutes late is equivalent to the average person’s idea of twenty minutes early. And trust me, they’re definitely going to want to come. They’d rock up to a serial killer’s house if there was the promise of free booze.”

“That’s highly concerning. You realize that’s highly concerning, right?”

She shrugs. “Just how it is.”

“Also—” I pause. Frown. “I’m sorry, did you just compare me to a serial killer?”

“No,” she says, with too much emphasis. “Although, just to put it out there, even if you were a serial killer, I would absolutely stick by you and sharpen your knives.”

“How sweet.”

“I’d also clean the blood off your bathroom floor,” she adds brightly. “I was reading this fascinating article the other day about how to use basic laundry detergents to do just that. You wouldn’t have to worry about leaving behind any evidence.”

“Okay, wait.” I hold up a hand. “In this—frankly disturbing, highly unrealistic—scenario you’ve conjured out of nowhere, why am I murdering people in my bathroom?”

“Well, you wouldn’t be murdering people in your kitchen. That’s just unhygienic.”

I grimace. “I fear this conversation has gotten away from us.”

“Yeah, sorry, what were we talking about again? Oh right. They’ll show up, Sadie, I promise—”

I’m more offended by the implication that I can’t be the kind of person who’d throw a party for fun. That he thinks he has me all figured out. That I’m an open book to him, and he can read me easily, better than anybody else.